I Could Offer You A Warm Embrace
by thegayestarabian
Summary: Set pre-'Sexy'. Angsty one-shot from Brittany's POV. Rated M for...well, sex.


**Disclaimer: I do not own Brittany and/or Santana. All mistakes are due to my own last minute editing.**

**Title comes from Adele's cover of 'Make You Feel My Love'. I want to thank my beta, Amy, for taking the time to read this.**

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Ever since Santana and Brittany started getting intimate again after Brittany and Artie started dating, Brittany's noticed that Santana's become a little more...needy.

Not that she minds. Brittany loves it. She loves the way it feels to top Santana, to feel her shiver under her touch. She wants to feel Santana shiver, not because she's repulsed by what they're doing or because she's afraid, but because she _wants_ it.

Brittany knows that Santana wants to be touched, to be made love to - and she knows this because Santana's kisses taste rough.

Rough and lonely and tinged with sadness, bordering on desperation.

And Santana's taken to crying during - not that she notices. When they're in the throes of passion all Santana focuses on - or tries to focus on - is getting off. But Brittany knows that this isn't just about sex.

Not anymore.

So one clumsy night when Santana bustles into her room through the window after 12 am wearing nothing but maroon sweatpants and a black t-shirt, Brittany's excited. She switches on the light and laughs at Santana's disheveled state. Brittany lives in a pretty quiet neighborhood, so the sound of crickets resonates throughout her room before she closes the window.

"What?"

"Baby, there's a twig in your hair," Brittany giggles, sticking out her hand and brushing her fingertips across Santana's scalp - she swears Santana closes her eyes at the brief touch, and she feels a tingle somewhere beneath her toes.

"So, what brings you here so early?" Brittany jokes, before realizing that Santana looks...scared. Fearful. Tentative. She's trying to shut those emotions out - Brittany can tell by the way she stands in the middle of her room, so stiff, so rigid - but her eyes tell all.

Santana's eyes have been Brittany's friends throughout the years, betraying feelings Santana would never want her to know about. The minute Brittany starts to lose hope, Santana's eyes beckon to her - almost like Santana's begging her to stay, begging her not to leave -

Begging her to wait. To give her time.

So Brittany does.

When she looked into Santana's eyes the first time Santana breathed 'sex is not dating' into her ear as she came down from their first time, Brittany knew Santana was lying - because she averted her gaze; because she knew her eyes would betray her.

(Brittany knows that Santana needs her. More than ever. More than anything in this world.)

And when she looks into Santana's eyes now, brushing her thumb along the hem of Brittany's sleep shirt and simultaneously mumbling something along the lines of, 'it's not cheating - the plumbing's different,' she knows that Santana's lying too. But she knows better than to say anything; she doesn't want to scare Santana off.

Sometimes she feels like Santana's a butterfly - beautiful, yet breakable. So breakable. She sees it every time Santana's on the brink of ecstasy. She saw it every time Santana came to her after countless dates with nameless boys she never wanted to talk about. She saw it when the entire Glee club ganged up on her - the tears streaming down her face, the way she clung to Brittany afterward - and she sees it now.

Santana's eyes are hazy with lust and something else - Brittany thinks it's love, but she can't be too sure - and Brittany lets the suggestive smile fall off her face. They both watch Santana's thumb move of its own accord - Brittany slyly notes that Santana's wearing a thumb ring now - and before long it rests right on the cleft between Brittany's two breasts.

Santana's breath hitches in her throat. So Brittany decides to take control. She pinches Santana's chin with her index finger and thumb and moves forward, closing the gap between them with a soft, hesitant kiss. Santana uncurls her palm and lets it rest on Brittany's chest, allowing herself to _feel_ for a moment - and then the protective sheath kicks back in and her hand hardens against Brittany's chest, pushing her back. Her stature stiffens under Brittany's scrutiny.

But her eyes are more afraid than ever. They make her look smaller than ever. The small cracks in Santana's walls were now blatant fissures.

"I need to -" she breaks off, flustered, licking her lips and letting the words roll off her tongue, "I need this. You. I _need_ to see you."

Brittany's eyes widen slightly. She stands up and takes off her shirt, leaving nothing on but her underwear. She shivers a little then chuckles, straightening herself out like a sparrow rustling its feathers.

She watches as Santana's eyes trail down her body - her collarbones, her shoulders, her breasts, her navel - and breathes out a sigh. The lights are on. They never do this with the lights on.

Santana never looks at her like this - well, not openly anyway. There's always a buffer, soundproof glass, a sheet of ice, darkness, _anything - _that prevents Brittany from seeing this visceral _want_ waft off of Santana in waves. Her mouth is half open, almost like she's forgotten to close it.

But Santana doesn't stay open for long. In less than a split-second she's shut off once again.

"I need - I want - you're so -"

But she can't finish her sentence. So she trails off. Breathes in. Then out. Her eyes dart around again, fixating on a spot right above Brittany's shoulder. Then she tries again.

"I need you to trust me. Can you do that?"

What a strange choice of words. But Brittany decides not to question it - she never does, anyway - and nods. She can't deny that she's a bit scared - but mostly, she's curious. She's been waiting for Santana to take control ever since she started dating Artie.

"Sit." The command isn't rough. Nor is it gentle. Brittany doesn't know what it is, but Santana asked for trust. She asked Brittany to trust her.

So Brittany's going to hand herself over to Santana for the night, no questions asked.

She sits down on her bed, back against the headboard - her sheets are childish, too childish for the adult thing that they're doing right now - and Santana leans over her, hooking her index fingers in the waistband of Brittany's underwear and pulling down urgently. Her center is exposed - it's glistening in the light of her room, and the cold air that hits her comes hand in hand with the realization that she's wet.

Wetter than she's ever been.

Santana's eyes are looking elsewhere - she's almost _embarrassed_ for Brittany. But her desire can't be tamed - the fact that she's not looking shows Brittany how badly she wants to look.

Brittany asks her what's wrong in a small voice that comes just short of a whisper. Santana exhales, saying nothing.

She pulls Santana's face towards her, begging her to _see_ - "San, there's nothing wrong with _this_ - it's...the way it's supposed to be," Brittany reassures her gently. She wants Santana to see that desire - desire in the way it's pooled at the meeting of Brittany's thighs - is the most natural human instinct, and possibly the most primal of them all.

Brittany doesn't care that she's completely naked - both physically and emotionally. Brittany's always been one to wear her heart on her sleeve, because she knows that the more it hurts, the greater the reward. It makes sense to her. In Brittany's mind, she can't experience the greatest pleasure if she doesn't experience the worst pain. In order to know love, one must know pain. Brittany likes to think of them like the flip sides of a coin - she's never seen a coin without both heads and tails.

(Life can be bittersweet like that. Nothing comes easy.)

She's not sure that Santana has ever _let_ herself feel pain. She holds back from it. Santana's like a broken mirror that's been taped together with the finest adhesive.

Little does she know that the cracks are still there for everyone to see.

Santana's still on her knees, keeping her distance when Brittany coaxes her over.

"We don't have to do this if you don't want to, San," she comforts her gently, "we could always just sleep. I miss snuggling with you." She smiles wide, just to reassure Santana. But somehow she feels that she's reassuring herself as well.

Because Brittany needs this as much as Santana does. She wants to maintain some semblance of normal in her life - 'normal' being life before Artie.

But at the same time, she doesn't want it to be like before. She doubts that it'll ever go back to that - Santana's too fragile, too broken for it.

And Brittany's too full - full of love, of hope, of dreams - to go back. She can't imagine a life without the Santana behind those smoldering eyes - the Santana she's not supposed to see.

Brittany's legs are slightly open, and Santana kneels on the bed, gently teasing Brittany's knees apart and leaning forward, meeting Brittany's pale lips with her own fuller ones - Santana's walking on eggshells with this kiss, like she's treading lightly - and she doesn't push further. She likes this gentleness; it reminds her of the books and poetry she reads for her English lit class, the ones about courtship and the sweet, naive, _innocent_ love she dreams of going back to with Santana sometimes.

(She can't remember the last time they just held each other.)

Santana moves lower, whispering promises over and over into the tendon of Brittany's neck - promises she thinks Brittany can't hear. Promises that Brittany thinks she can hear louder and clearer than Santana herself. Santana's heart is accelerating, her breaths are coming out in short bursts - and suddenly, the strip of skin between the hem of her shirt and the waistband of her sweats brushes against Brittany's center, and her breath hitches in her throat and she jerks back, involuntarily.

But Brittany fluidly grasps her elbows and pulls her forward once more, disregarding Santana's soft moan once her stomach rests flush against Brittany, and shifts her hands from Santana's elbows to the small of Santana's back, holding her firmly in place.

Santana starts to move fast - she's scared, now, and bordering on predatory - and her hand is moving between them, racing to get to Brittany's wetness, speeding to get her off. But Brittany's too fast for her, and with lightning speed she closes her hand around Santana's wrist in an almost warning gesture.

Santana fights for dominance - she wants to get this over with, and it's almost like she regrets coming here in the first place - but Brittany reins her in with a firm warning:

"Santana, stop it. Not - not like this. Please." She rests her forehead against Santana's, willing her eyes to stop shifting.

Brittany won't let this happen. She won't let Santana do this with her clothes on. She won't let Santana remain closed off. She wants her to unravel in her arms; she wants her to metamorphose into the full-blown butterfly - she wants her to hatch out of her cocoon.

She speaks again, less firmly; "can I please take your shirt off at least?" She doesn't mean for it to come out so small but it does, and Santana gives her a curt nod - Brittany assumes it's because her voice and her words are about to betray her as well.

Every aspect of Santana was turning against her.

Brittany takes the shirt off - it's clumsy and awkward, nothing magical - and snaps off Santana's bra. For a moment the only sound in the room is the sound of hurried breathing.

Then Santana's nipples brush against Brittany's; dusky against soft pink, and there's a hitch - Santana's breath catches in her throat, and Brittany realizes that Santana's holding back tears. But she doesn't say anything.

Not yet.

As Santana takes over, slowly and gently, Brittany stifles her moans - or at least, she _tries_ to; but it's not long before she's panting Santana's name with every exhale. And as Santana's fingers - which are anything but dexterous at this point; Santana's clumsy, filled to the brim with lust - glide lower, Brittany lets out a low, long sigh of relief, her eyebrows cinched together.

"Oh God Santana, you feel so good - so good - ohh myyy-"

Santana's fingers are inside, and she's whispering into her ear now - and her words spilling out, unhindered.

"I've missed this - I've missed you - I've missed us, I feel like I've waited so long and I'm so so sorry...oh God, remind me never to wait this long again-"

She kisses Brittany, and Brittany feels the taste of loneliness begin to ebb, only to be replaced with desperation. She tastes bitter, like tears and salt and maybe even regret - and her fingers move fast, pushing her forward but holding her back. Santana's trying to drag it out, and Brittany knows better than to complain.

Brittany's head falls back, and a loud thump resonates around the room; she's going to come.

"I'm so close," she whispers in between small gasps against the shell of Santana's ear. Santana shivers. It comes out like a secret, like a sacred secret, and Santana gives her a small, shy smile and kisses the corner of her mouth. It's so intimate and Brittany's heart flutters in her chest until she thinks it might explode.

(From loving too much.)

She can feel it, it's coming - it's burning from her heels to her chest to her mind -

After Brittany falls apart, she opens her eyes slowly, only to catch Santana watching her in awe. She grins, a grin so wide she thinks her face will split open, until she sees the fresh tears that silently run down her cheeks and land into the hollow of Brittany's collarbone.

"Hey," Brittany says, her voice solemn, "did I do something wrong? Did I upset you?"

Santana looks at her in surprise. Then she shakes her head no and opens her mouth to speak. But Brittany quickly silences her and pulls her in, dragging the fingernails of her right hand across Santana's bare back lightly and cupping her cheek with her left and kissing her lips again. She teases her tongue along Santana's top lip, her hand creeping down Santana's face to her torso, beyond the waistband of Santana's sweats. She's surprised to find that Santana's not wearing underwear. Her fingers rest for a moment on the crease between her right hip and thigh before venturing forward.

Santana shivers as Brittany moves closer, and gasps when she's inside. Brittany opens her eyes in wonder when she finds that the word 'wet' is probably an understatement for the state Santana is currently in. There's no way anyone can be this wet. As she works, the musky scent diffuses out from between them and Santana shuts her eyes in embarrassment. Brittany kisses her eyelids softly, prompting them to open in surprise.

Brittany also didn't know that it was physically possible to come as early as Santana did - all it took was one gentle finger to push Santana over the edge. They're cheek to cheek, and Brittany feels the heat radiating off Santana's face - she's blushing.

Brittany watches Santana fall apart - it's not her first time watching, but it is the first time Santana doesn't squeeze her eyes shut like coming in a girls arms is something to be ashamed of. Instead, her eyes roll back and she closes her them simply because she _can't_ keep them open. Her mouth is slightly open, and her hot bursts of breath tickle Brittany's ear.

(Santana's walls crumble to the earth. For now.)

When Santana settles, resting flush against her with a muffled '_oomph_' and a hurried apology, she looks at Brittany - the lights are still on, so Brittany can see the sated fire behind the brown - and smiles, a watery smile that breaks, morphing into tears and racking sobs into the crook of Brittany's neck. She doesn't whisper promises into Brittany's neck now; instead, she whispers confessions that she thinks are too quiet for Brittany to hear. Confessions that are in fact, louder than she thinks they are.

Brittany thinks that somehow, Santana's subconscious is amplifying what it thinks she needs to hear. Just to make sure Brittany will wait. That Brittany won't leave.

Santana's still shaking in the aftermath, so Brittany holds her – one strong arm around her waist, her fingers pressing softly into the dimples in her lower back, and other in her pants, her fingertips resting lightly against the damp, throbbing flesh. Santana's temple – against the underside of Brittany's jaw – is clammy with sweat, and her sobs rack through her entire body. Brittany feels the stretched muscle in Santana's neck – the way it shifts underneath her skin with every inhaled breath, with every exhaled sob – and cringes at the way the sobs effortlessly flow out of her, like she's been holding them in for a long, long time.

She pushes Santana's sweats down and waits for Santana to kick them off and then rolls them over. She's on top now – but she doesn't want to do anything other than kiss and kiss and kiss until they're both breathless and panting hotly against each other. Brittany folds her hands on Santana's chest and rests her chin on them, eyes traveling over Santana's face – lips, now red and plump and slightly swollen; apple cheeks, with a crimson tinge threatening to bloom; her temple, the vein there slowing down from an erratic throb to a mild pulse; her eyes, shining with tears and remorse and happiness and relief and a million other emotions that Brittany couldn't count even if she sat there for a decade trying to suss them out.

Santana lifts her hand, hesitating for a moment before she bravely tucks a strand of blonde hair behind Brittany's ear. The air between their lips hangs tight, like a stretched rope; words unsaid lingering between them. She lies naked in between Santana's thighs, the soft inner flesh squeezing at the dip in Brittany's waist.

Her ear rests against Santana's chest. Santana's heartbeat is slow and loud. Santana rests her hand on top of Brittany's head and kisses her temple before she closes her eyes and they both lose themselves to sleep.

(Soon, Brittany will stand at that locker, alone and helpless.)

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**Review if you feel so inclined!**


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